This is it
by Enochianess
Summary: Heartbreak wasn't what Mickey was expecting. There was no sudden gut-wrenching pain that left him curled on the floor in the foetus position for two days straight. It was much worse.


**This is kind of depressing so I'm sorry but the finale has destroyed me. I am unabashedly in love with Mickey Milkovich and he deserved so much more.**

 **I've created a playlist to accompany this fic, so make sure to check that out on 8tracks:**  
 **/enochianess/this-is-it**

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Heartbreak wasn't what Mickey was expecting. There was no sudden gut-wrenching pain that left him curled on the floor in the fetus position for two days straight. It was much worse.

It began the moment he woke up. A dull ache, throbbing and twisting his stomach with nausea. It would build, slowly, virtually unrecognizably, throughout the day.

At night, it was almost unbearable. He would turn and thrash beneath the sheets trying to find a position in which he could settle, but none would suffice as a replacement for the solid comfort of Ian's chest, the warmth and safety of being encircled in his arms. This would go on for hours before he would finally get up and leave the house, his skin clammy from the summer heat and his restless movement. He'd sit on the front steps of the house, light his cigarette with shaky fingers and shallow breath. He'd take a drag, close his eyes, let the weight of his exhaustion press heavily down on him. The ache would pound and tears would fall silently, almost unnoticeably, down his cheeks. Mickey would scrub his face in frustration. Mickey Milkovich was not supposed to cry. He was not supposed to pine over some boy like a love-sick bitch; over a fucking carrot head at that.

Except, Mickey had fucking loved the guy. How in the hell had he ever let that happen, let himself get so deep, let himself get attached and vulnerable and reliant like that? It was a dumb ass move if ever he'd made one. Stupid, fucking firecrotch.

He savored the feeling of the smoke rolling smoothly off his tongue and he watched blankly as it drifted away slowly in the thick, still air. The sleepless nights were wearing him thin and hell if he wasn't losing his fucking mind. Everything felt wrong, his skin itched, his stomach lurched. He tossed the end of his cigarette aside without looking where it fell and immediately grappled in his pocket for another one, lighting it as he headed back inside.

He laughed bitterly to himself as he took a swig of the unlabeled bottle of vodka on the table. It wouldn't be enough. To begin with, alcohol had done the trick and had knocked him out blissfully. It wasn't working anymore though. He couldn't drink Ian away. He couldn't drink that fucking ache away. The ache only pulsated harder, forced him to convulse painfully, as if to remind him that it could not be silenced. The alcohol would send him to the edge, balancing on that precipice of consciousness, but it would never tide him over. The ache would knock the breath from his lungs like a punch to the stomach and he found himself forced back into his hellish reality.

He moved back towards the bedroom, tripping over some shit on his way. He fell down heavily and groaned, his kneecaps and elbows still bruised from where he'd fallen the night before, and the night before that. He rolled over and clenched his fists, his eyes squeezing shut as he began to beat at his own ribs. The sharp pain helped distract him from that hollow ache, if only for a few seconds. He welcomed any relief. Nowadays, he seemed to be getting in fights everyday just so that he could take the edge off. He looked a fucking mess.

Mandy shuffled sleepily out her room and trudged into the kitchen to get a glass of water, not even sparing Mickey a glance. She knew he'd be there. He was there every night. She gulped the cool liquid down quickly and then turned to Mickey with a sigh. She kicked him with enough force to receive a grunt, but not enough to do any damage. "Time for bed, Mickey." She'd say.

He wanted to scream. Break something. Break everything.

Fucking Gallaghers.

He got back in bed and pulled the sheets over him. He couldn't stand feeling this fucked up anymore. Ian had been right. _Where was that shit-talking, bitch-slapping, piece of South Side trash that he'd fallen for? What was with all this whiny, pussy crap?_

Mickey laid flat on his back and swore to himself that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, the old Mickey Milkovich would be back. He thought back over everything that had happened, everything that had gone wrong. He tried to work out where _he'd_ gone wrong, what he'd done to fuck up the only good thing he'd ever had in his shit-fuck trashy life. He'd run his mind over and over it all until, finally, completely and utterly exhausted, he'd pass out.

Mickey would wake and slowly open his eyes, his gaze immediately fixing on the ceiling above. He sighed, long and suffering. He rubbed his fists into his eye sockets and tried to blink away the exhaustion. He sat up. It was time to do it all over again.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

 _Fuck._


End file.
